by Jordan Cole
“Sprint to the shed,” Riley said. “Crouch down and hide behind it. I’ve got to get the car. If I’m not back in two minutes, wait there and give yourself up to the police. Don’t move from that spot.”
Agatha nodded. In pure fight or flight mode now. Took off toward the shed at breakneck pace, while Riley turned, looping cautiously around the east side of the cabin. Head down, moving at a quick trot. Making himself as small a target as possible. But he didn’t think whoever shot Ramirez would fire at him. Wouldn’t make sense, if they were going for the frame up. The shooter was probably already speeding back toward the highway by now.
The Toyota sat twenty yards in front of Ramirez’s Crown Vic. Riley could see his partner inside, her head bobbing up and down in the driver’s seat. Torn between safety and trying to save her downed colleague. Not much of a choice. Ramirez was beyond help. His flesh had been ripped open into a jagged hole. Face down in the dirt.
Riley grabbed his revolver and held it in front of him. Kept moving forward. Ramirez’s partner spotted him as he was just feet from the Toyota. She opened the driver’s side door, shielding herself with it. Her Beretta came up, resting between the V shaped by the door and Crown Vic’s body.
“Freeze!” She yelled. “Drop your weapon!” Her gun aimed at Riley’s center mass. He dove left, to the passenger’s side of the Toyota. Opened the door and scrambled inside.
“I didn’t do this!” Riley yelled, as loud as he could. “There’s a shooter in the woods!”
“Come out of the car and put your weapon on the ground!”
Riley ducked down into the wheel well. Reached up and started the engine. Peered his head out as little as possible, so that he could see. Three shots pinged into the side of the SUV. Sounding like firecrackers. They went ricocheting through the back seat, nowhere near Riley. He slammed the gas and the Toyota jumped forward. Still crouched as low as he could, steering with one hand. Gunned the motor and mast a fast arc around the cabin. Leaving Ramirez’s partner behind. She fired two more shots after him, both of them missing the SUV entirely. Riley tore up grass and dirt on a beeline for the shed. Slamming the brakes, watching the whole car shudder. He opened the passenger door and Agatha jumped in, while Riley got himself positioned properly in the driver’s seat.
“Keep your head down,” he said. “And buckle up. It’s going to get bumpy.”
The terrain behind Riley’s cabin was a severe grade of treacherous ravines, sheer drops, and impassable brush. The mountain sloped at angry acute angles, daring the unwary to make a false move and careen into an abyss. He could link up with the back roads eventually. But it was a long way down.
Sirens wailing somewhere in the distance. Agatha braced her hands against the dashboard and Riley pushed forward, easing the Toyota down the steep mountainside. The undercarriage lurched and shuddered, jolting the two of them into the ceiling. He navigated between a cluster of oak trees, then careening into a sheer drop he didn’t see coming. The breath went out of him. Agatha screamed, and they hit the ground with a tremendous bang, still accelerating, the right side of the SUV fishtailing into the air. Riley swung the wheel to the left, not braking, trying to maintain speed, and the car wobbled angrily before miraculously righting itself.
“You’re going to flip us over,” Agatha said. A flat affect in her voice, an auditory version of the thousand-yard-stare. Her mind still struggling to process the events of the past half hour.
“No, I’m not.”
The transmission hissed and growled like a feral cat as it bruised through the underbrush. Thatches of ivy and laurel grinding through the Toyota’s all-terrain tires, churning the dirt out behind in a muddy spray. A thinly paved road stretched along their path and Riley cut across it, descending even farther. This section of mountain was crisscrossed with back roads, many of them leading in roundabout circles. A labyrinth that would be easy to get lost in. They needed to get off the mountain and start heading west or south. Away from the urban centers.
Riley braced himself against the steering wheel and Agatha did the same with the dashboard as they bounded down another steep grade, rocking and thumping. If they stalled out, it would all be over very soon. But they didn’t. The Toyota whined and moaned but held steady. A testament to Japanese engineering. Finally the ground leveled off. The Toyota straightened, and the grass gave way to a gently-paved road barely wide enough for a single car. Riley did some quick reckoning with the sun and figured he was heading southwest. Which was better than the alternative directions, but not for long.
“We need another vehicle,” Riley said. “They know what I’m driving. They’ll pick us up in no time at all in this thing.” Though they hadn’t traveled far, as the crow flies, the surroundings were very different. They were deep in Appalachia now, some unincorporated settlement that Riley wasn’t even sure had a name. The mountains were populated with these enclaves, folk who’d been living here for generations or loners who’d trekked out into the wilderness to get away from it all. Sort of like himself.
“Hillbilly junction over here,” Agatha muttered, as Riley slowed the Toyota to a cruise. Double wide trailers lined the sloping road, everything shaded by trees and foliage. Real backwoods country, nestled in the valley of the mountain. Lawns piled with junk, beater cars on cinder blocks beside rusted chain link fences. A hanging sign riddled with bullet holes, advertising a local garage. Agatha might have been disdainful, but hillbillies could be useful. Especially in situations like these. They had an innate distrust of authority, for one. And they were willing to bargain.
No sign of the police yet. But the net would be extending rapidly. Riley guessed they had less than an hour to find a new ride and hightail it out of the state. But the new surroundings filled him with optimism. He figured he could do it in under twenty minutes.
“What are you thinking?” Agatha asked. But he didn’t respond. Flashing back to Iraq, when he’d bribed nearly everyone--soldiers, informants, children--with whatever he could. Bribery was a skill like any other, and Riley had gotten pretty good at it. Not as good as some of the guys. Some of the guys could sell space heaters to the Iraqis, in the midst of a 120-degree Baghdad summer. But he was good enough. A kind of art to it. You make the guy think he’s getting the better end of the deal. In this case, that wouldn’t be difficult.
Riley kept driving. They passed more trailers, more jalopies, more guys sitting in folding chairs drinking beers, dogs running in frantic patterns on gravel. Waiting until he saw a tableau that felt right. The sun burning brighter now, promising a blisteringly hot day.
“What is it?” Agatha said, sounding on the verge of tears. Again, he didn’t respond. He was concentrating, analyzing. They passed a boarded-up saloon, an empty burger stand, a long tract of dirt churned and dug up by a lone steam shovel, sitting abandoned. Then he saw what he was looking for.
Another trailer, but a yard free of debris and clutter. No animals chained to posts. A man of about fifty sitting on the trailer’s steps, shirtless, gray hairs mixed in with the dark on his chest. Reading the morning paper while watching the Toyota from the corners of his eyes. Parked parallel to the trailer was an Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera. A later model, maybe ‘95 or ‘96. White, but covered in dust and grime so that it appeared a kind of queasy yellow color. Riley craned his neck. Inflated tires, four of them. He pulled the Toyota into the yard. Killed the engine and got out. Told Agatha to wait. The man on the steps set down his newspaper. A neutral look on his face. Concerned, but not aggressive. Not overly territorial, but not outwardly trusting. The kind of combination Riley was hoping for.
“Help you?” the man said, in a courteous drawl. Riley pointed to the Oldsmobile.
“That thing ride?”
“Sure does. Like a champ.”
“I’ll trade you. The Toyota for the Olds. Right now.”
The man arched his neck. Looking over the Toyota. Its model was a few years old, but aside from the trio of fresh bullet holes and a few mud stains after the
jaunt down the mountain, it was an impressive looking vehicle. At least compared to the Oldsmobile, which looked like it had been puked out by an ill assembly line somewhere in Detroit.
“I’d say that’s not exactly a fair trade. Seems skewed about twenty grand in my favor.”
“I’m in a giving mood. A one-time-only deal.”
Riley could see the guy putting the pieces together in his head. The bullet holes, the muddy wheels, the breathless offer. Riley guessed he wasn’t the first fugitive from justice who’d ever rolled through these parts, sweaty and desperate. The man studied Riley, then the Toyota once again.
“Does the gal come with the car?”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
He chuckled. “Only joking. Too bad, though.”
The man bit a piece of nail from his thumb. Scratched his neck.
“Well sir, I’m tempted. What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Riley said. “Just a few stipulations. I take the license plates with me. You’ll have to get new ones. Sorry about that. Also, I’d wait a while before tooling around town in it. Say a month? Put it somewhere out of the way until then. A new paint job wouldn’t hurt, either. If you’re cool with all that, it’s yours.”
“Uh huh. And I’m assuming if any law enforcement entities show up asking about it, then this whole arrangement never took place.”
“Heavens no. Your no-good brother in law sold you that car on the cheap. Or whoever fits the bill. You certainly don’t know where it came from.”
The man smiled.
“Good morning to me. You’ve got a deal. Need a screwdriver?”
They shook hands. The man retreated into his trailer and came out moments later with a small screwdriver. Riley tapped on the window to get Agatha’s attention, who had watched the whole transaction with a blank face.
“New ride,” he said. “A throwback.”
Riley dropped down and unscrewed the Toyota plates. They exchanged keys. Riley unlocked the Oldsmobile, handing the plates to Agatha. The seat fabric was stiff, and it smelled like old socks. But the engine caught, first try. A steady, healthy hum. Riley put the lever in drive and it rolled forward.
“Thanks, pal,” Riley called out the window. The guy gave him a salute. Grinning like he’d won the lottery. Riley hit the gas, and they were back on the road.
“What a piece of junk,” Agatha said.
“You kidding me? It rides great.”
They drove a few more miles, the Oldsmobile lumbering but steady. Coming up to the outskirts of the mountain settlement. Ahead was the highway, and eventually the interstate. Riley pulled over to a deserted switchback, much like the one where they’d first met. There was a creek running alongside of the road. Lapping over stones, extending out into the distance. Riley took the license plates and flung them, as far as he could. They splashed down beneath the water and out of sight.
“Your turn to drive,” he said.
She looked at him, puzzled.
“Why?”
“I’m concerned about roadblocks. They’re looking for a man, or a man and a woman together. Not a woman, solo. Think it’s best if I ride in the trunk for a spell.”
“The trunk. You’re going to be hot as hell in there.”
He shrugged. Wasn’t like he had much choice in the matter. Not if he wanted to stay a free man.
“Where am I supposed to go?” Agatha asked.
“Head west. Maybe buy a pair of sunglasses and a hat when you get out of Virginia. Tie your hair back. Don’t break any traffic laws. Once we’re in Kentucky, you can drag me out for some air and we’ll figure out just what the hell we’re going to do.”
He popped the trunk. Walked around to the rear of the car. Agatha followed him. Riley reached down, feeling the thin material of the trunk’s interior. Broiling. It was going to be a long six or seven hours. He peeled off his shirt. Climbed inside. Agatha stood over him for a long moment, curls shining in the sun. He was already starting to sweat.
“Good luck,” she said. And slammed the trunk closed.
16.
Special Agent Metzer had seen some shitshows in his day, but this was up there with the worst of them. That was apparent immediately. He eased his dark Buick closer to the cabin, passing by wave after wave of gravely serious cops, who checked his badge and reluctantly ushered him forward, like they were doing him a favor. He pushed his sunglasses against his face and continued onward. The hot air from outside mixing with the car’s A/C. Not great weather to be wearing a suit, but he didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter.
The immediate exterior of the cabin was jammed with cars. Cruisers from Charlemagne County, cruisers from the MPD, ambulances, and a lone firetruck hanging around for good measure. The front yard roped off with crime scene tape, plainclothes detectives and CSI guys milling around inside of it. No press yet, but he imagined they would be here soon, if they weren’t already on the way. Metzer saw a large bloodstain in the dirt, already oxidized into a dark chocolate brown in the sun. He pulled the Buick off to the side where he could find free space and got out. Stretched his limbs and cracked his neck, which some of the Unis apparently regarded as a disrespectful gesture, based on their expressions. He didn’t care. Wasn’t as if his having a limber body was going to affect the situation, one way or another.
A portly guy in his mid-forties was talking to a smaller black lady inside the cordon, their conversation growing heated. Metzer saw flecks of blood spatter on the woman’s blazer. The partner of the guy who’d been killed, he assumed. Some kind of jurisdictional battle going on. They weren’t going to like him butting his head in, but then again, nobody ever really did. He climbed over the police tape, which had been strung between two distant trees and sagged limply. Flashed his badge at the two of them, who ceased their bickering and turned to him.
“FBI,” he said. “Ralph Metzer. Sorry to hear about your guy.”
They regarded him with some minor consternation, but not overt hostility. Introductions were made. The portly guy was Dan Hennessey, Charlemagne County sheriff. The black woman was Renee Throop, who was indeed the partner of the recently deceased Det. John Ramirez.
“All due respect, agent Metzer,” Hennessey started, with a down-home country lilt to his voice, “Not sure who called the Bureau in on this one. We got enough guys poking around out here as it is.”
“We did,” Throop said. City versus country, no love lost in her tone. “We’ve got a possible kidnapping in addition to the murder. A dangerous fugitive on the run. I want all the help I can get.”
Metzer shrugged, like he was just caught up in the middle of all this.
“Interstate kidnapping, that’s my territory for sure,” he said. “Along with an interstate fugitive.”
“No offense ma’am,” Hennessey said, “but your partner was just murdered in front of you. Maybe you should see the counselor, step away for a little while.”
But the look on Throop’s face indicated that wasn’t going to happen. Not just yet.
“Why don’t you catch me up,” Metzer said. “Run down exactly what happened.”
“My partner and I were called down here,” Throop said. Her voice shaky but firm.
“Cabin belongs to Clayton Riley the third,” she continued. “Our suspect. He was with a woman named Agatha Dumont. They’d been in and out of the station the past few days, talking to Ramirez.”
“What was the nature of the relationship between Riley and this woman? Romantic?”
“No,” Throop said. “They claimed Riley prevented her from an abduction, not far from here. Her car was stalled, some guy came through and got aggressive. Riley just happens to stumble over at the right time, knocks the guy out.”
“Which allegedly happened in Charlemagne county,” Hennessey said. “Meaning this case should have been ours from the get go.”
They ignored him.
“How’d this get down to MPD territory?” Metzer asked.
“They came through to DC the
next day,” Throop said. “Spun a wild story that the attempted abduction was connected to a bigger conspiracy. That people were after Ms. Dumont. She ran some kind of blog that did exposés. But there was no hard evidence. Ramirez worked the case himself, but he filled me in. He wasn’t buying it. Thought Riley had gotten the woman paranoid for no reason.”
“We found the car,” Hennessey said. “The one that had stalled, according to them. No problems with it. Top-of-the-line Lexus. Ran just fine, when we tried it.”
“This Riley guy,” Metzer began. “Military? What’s his deal?”
“Government contractor,” Throop said. “Worked mostly out of the middle east. Killed one of his officers over there, there was a big case about it, a while back. He was acquitted. He was giving Ramirez a hell of a hard time. Didn’t seem to care much for cops.”
“These loner types come up here, suspicious of everyone, want to be left alone,” Hennessey added. “They’ve been pulling guns out of the cabin all morning.”
As if to illustrate the point, a glove officer came out through the cabin’s front door, holding a pristine-looking AR-15 rifle. Metzer stared at it for a long moment before turning back to Throop.
“Everyone out in the mountains here has guns,” he said. “Doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a nut.”
“Not like this,” Hennessey said. “Riley had a safe room built into the cabin’s basement. Reinforced concrete, security monitors. Our guys found motion sensors all over the property, spread out over hundreds of yards. Riley was just waiting for something like this to go down.”
